Consciousness came back like drowning in reverse — slow and choking, feeling the world pressing in through thick fog.
My eyelids were heavy. My body was heavier.
Something cold bit my arms. I tried to move. My limbs didn't respond at first, just a dull ache in my shoulders and hips.
Then the burn came, sharp and familiar, where the restraints pinched.
Panic clawed up my throat before my mind could catch up, but my body wouldn't let me thrash. Everything was slow. Sluggish.
I blinked hard. The room tilted sideways, then levelled. Dim light above me. A large room, shadows ahead, cold and dark.
I knew this room.
The Act room.
My breath hitched. I pulled against the straps again, and flinched at the sound of leather creaking. My legs were bound. My arms. But I wasn't gagged.
Then I heard something else.
A sip. A slow exhale. The shifting of clothes.
Tyler.
I turned my head, dizzy from the motion, and saw him standing to my left, holding a cup of coffee, staring at his phone like this was just another afternoon.
He didn't look up. Sipped the coffee. Scrolled his thumb over the screen.
"You awake yet?"
I didn't respond.
"Don't worry... it's not an Act," he said, calmly, nonchalantly. "You can stop panicking."
I didn't believe him. My body didn't believe him either. I opened my mouth, but it took a second for words to form.
"Why...?" was all I managed.
"You were a handful," he said. "They had to sedate you. This was the safest place to put you."
I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. "You mean the most convenient."
He smiled. "Semantics, princess."
"Don't."
He finally looked at me.
He took another sip, pushed off the wall, and came toward me, slowly, like there was no urgency at all. He set the coffee cup down on the edge of the table.
Stood over me now, I could him in full. I hated how tall he felt when I was strapped down. He looked me over like I was a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to finish or smash to pieces.
"You look better now," he said, teasingly. "Less frothing at the mouth."
"Go to hell," I scoffed.
He chuckled at that. "Already there, thanks. And so are you."
He moved to sit against the table, perched on the edge, and crossed his arms. For a few minutes, he didn't say anything else, just watched me, biting his lip.
"You're not going to scream this time?" he asked, finally.
"No."
"Why not? I half expected you to."
"Because I'm not afraid of you."
At that, he laughed under his breath. "That's cute."
Then his expression shifted, just barely — something behind the eyes I caught momentarily.
"Oh, and by the way, what happened the other day was nothing to do with you."
I almost smirked, feeling a little emboldened despite my position. "You mean when you lost control and threw a tray at the wall?"
He tilted his head, just a little.
"Think you're funny?" he sneered. "I was already annoyed. Nate said something that got under my skin, that’s all it was. But your defiance does piss me off."
"You were shaking," I reminded him.
That worked. He leaned in closer, enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body. Then his hand came up — slow, deliberate — and settled on the side of my neck.
His thumb brushed over the edge of my jaw, deceivingly gentle.
I froze. Felt a flutter in my stomach that betrayed me.
"You don't want to play that game, princess," he murmured. "I'm still the one with the keys."
He kept his hand there, warm and steady. His thumb drifted down the hollow of my throat, then to the strap of my bra running across my collarbone. He tugged at it slightly. Made me shiver involuntarily.
"You forget who I am, Emily," he said, almost... fondly. "I could completely ruin you. I could kill you if I wanted."
I knew this game, thought I’d worked it out. He wanted me to flinch. To beg. To break. I just stared back. Because if I gave him nothing, maybe he'd take less.
I let the silence settle again, and then responded with, "But you won't."
His eyes narrowed. Did that hit a nerve? Maybe. He felt something, I know he did.
He came closer. Too close. Braced his hands on the table. I could feel the his breath on my temple, smelled the sourness in his throat. He hovered there, lips inches from my skin. Too still. Too quiet.
"This attitude of yours isn't getting you anywhere, princess," he whispered.
And then, his hand moved. Reached into his pocket. And his voice dropped. Onyx eyes on mine. Unmoving. Unblinking.
My heart rate picked up.
"The thing is, all I need to do is pull out our little friend here... and that attitude immediately goes away."
The scalpel gleamed in his hand as it slowly withdrew from his trouser pocket.
I gulped. Looked away. An automatic win for him and he knew how to play it to his advantage.
He pulled back after a moment, moved to my side and crouched down so we were eye level.
Then reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear with maddening care. I let his knuckles graze the curve of my jaw.
"You know what's funny?" he murmured.
I didn't answer.
"You're acting all tough and defiant, but you're terrified. Not just of how I can hurt you... But of how I get closer every time we meet. Of how I touch you..."
His eyes flicked over my lips.
"And of how much you want it."
The words hit like a slap. I flinched.
His hand holding the scalpel came closer to my face.
And then it dawned on me.
He was enjoying this. He was relishing my fear, my discomfort, the way I reacted to him.
He thrived on it.
Tyler stood up and walked a few paces away from the table. I followed his movement with my eyes. That familiar mask of cold detachment started to settle back over his face — but I'd seen it slip.
He picked up the coffee cup, took a long gulp, and walked away.
He stopped by the tray table against the far wall, set the scalpel down with a soft clink, then exhaled slowly. Like none of it had happened.
But I could still feel the ghost of his thumb against my throat. My skin burned where he'd touched me.
I swallowed hard. I needed to ask him something, but my mind almost didn’t catch up.
"Tyler?”
He didn't answer right away. Just picked up his phone again, scrolling, pretending I was background noise.
"I need the toilet…”
That got his attention, but only mildly. His eyes flicked over his shoulder, then back to the phone. "You'll live."
"I'm serious."
"And I'm busy." He set the phone down without looking at me. "Jack'll take you later."
A slow flare of heat rose in my chest. Not quite humiliation or anger. Something sourer. Because he'd dismissed me.
"Right," I muttered. "Of course. Wouldn't want to interrupt your busy schedule of... scrolling on your phone."
He smirked at that, as if proud of me for biting back. "You really can't help yourself, can you?" he said, sounding amused.
"Neither can you."
His smile didn't falter, but his jaw tensed. Just a little.
He came back to me, his hand brushing the table's edge.
"You know you don't scare me either, right?" he whispered. "You're pathetic."
I stared at him for a beat too long.
"So are you," I whispered back, a bite in my tone. "And you hate how much I get to you."
"You think I hate it?" he said, too quickly, dangerous eyes burning through mine.
I didn't answer out loud, but I thought it.
And his expression changed once again — not the mask, not the smugness, something else. A flicker of something real.
But just as soon, it was gone again. Like it had never been there. He pushed off the table, stood tall again, and dusted an invisible speck from his sleeve.
"Act 3 is tomorrow… Prepare yourself."
The door clanged shut behind him.
I glanced at Jack. Silent. Watching.
And I sat there, heart hammering in my ribs, not knowing if I wanted to scream or smile.